Wild John - Art and Poetry

John Reinhart's unique art and poetry

John Reinhart, Wild John, Poet

BIOAn arsonist by trade, John Reinhart lives on a farmlette in Colorado with his wife and children. He is a Frequent Contributor at the Songs of Eretz, member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and was awarded the 2016 Horror Writers Association Dark Poetry Scholarship. He is a co-editor at Poetry Nook where he won the weekly contest seven times, and has been nominated for Dwarf Stars and Rhysling Awards.

The Works

Last night I wrote a symphony –“Corrugated Recycles” I call it –on the back of a pizza box.

It starts with strings playing pizzicato,lumbers deep into horns covered in grease,then cymbals, like giant pepperoni, crash.

The second movement creeps up the sideonto the top: “Cosmic Pizza” is all percussion,rise and expansion, sustain, rest.

Movement three goes inward,the most obscure and difficult part,cluttered with crust and crumbs, real cheese,

Finally, up the inside lid, closure,a simple melody to light the tunnel –done in thirty minutes or it’s free.

first published in 94 Creations Journal #6

Abominable Punctuation

cratersmark the sentence left to mystery – black eyes staring from the snowstormtwinkling empty promises to allbut the intrepid believerspursuing their beastly authorif only to prove his existenceas civilization brought Grendelto his knees and raised the digitaltotem to ward off the legends of footprints in the snow…

first published in Star*Line

sipping time

she ladled a dollopoff the moon from the lower cornerof her window,dropped it in her steaming teaand drank, swirling nebulaeand tea leaves, reading futureand past together –she switched offthe moonlight so a future loverparting the curtains could allowa silvery path to extendalong the floor, across the bed,up two long bare legs,reflecting a round face,asleep, dreaming of long shadowsin an old garden of somnolent morningglory and wisteria posing likejaguars in early National Geographics,observing the stellarpebbles directing the wayhome, past the moors and dunesto a salt shaped hovel yet to be builton the edge of seawhere the world’s turtle plods onwardacross the sparkling sand,headed to heights reflected in depthsas the incoming tide promises talesof a thousand moons thousands of milesaway where her lover’s boat drifts into thehorizon, into a ladleful of moonabsorbed by the dream of steaming teaand a quiet face illuminated in moonlight